Dead in Her Tracks (4 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

“
If the doctor says no crutches yet then
no crutches
!” Standing in her mother’s living room, Stevie was ready to strangle Bruce. “You
broke
your leg. Do you want it to mend straight or do you want to be the guy that always walks in a circle because one leg is shorter than the other?” Beside her, Patsy gave silent support and lent her own disapproving glare.

“All right. Sheesh. Don’t gang up on me,” muttered Bruce.

Her younger brother looked like he’d gone a dozen rounds with a professional fighter, but clearly he was feeling better. When he’d heard Patsy ask Stevie to pick up his medications at the pharmacy, he’d requested that she rent him some crutches.

Patsy had recited the doctor’s orders about keeping weight off the leg, but Bruce had asked Stevie again once their mother had stepped out of earshot. Or so he’d thought.

“I’ll get your pain meds,” Stevie told him. “Nothing else.” She kissed her mother and flicked Bruce on the forehead with two fingers, darting out of the way as he took a brotherly swing at her.

Her mother walked her to the door. “He looks and sounds a hundred percent better than he did yesterday,” said Stevie.

“He’s young,” said Patsy. “And he can’t sit still. Pick up some crossword puzzle books or magazines or anything to occupy his brain. He’s about to drive me crazy.”

“Has he played the guitar?” Stevie asked quietly, glancing over her shoulder. Her brother was out of sight.

“He keeps picking it up. He’ll play for a second and then sets it aside. He’s really missing Amber Lynn. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet that she won’t breeze in the front door at any moment.” Patsy wiped an eye. “She was good for him, you know. I always knew it wouldn’t last, but I didn’t dream it would end because of her death.”

Stevie studied her mother, paying close attention as she always did when her mother casually talked about “knowing” future facts. Her mother had also said that her sister Carly and Seth were meant to be together, but they’d split up a year ago. It’d been the first time Stevie had doubted her mother’s gift.

Carly and Seth were back together and stronger than ever, and Stevie’s faith had been restored.

Stevie set three magazines, a sudoku book, two crossword puzzle books, and a kit to assemble a tiny Death Star model on the pharmacy counter. She’d added a fashion and gossip magazine to the sports ones simply to harass her brother.

What else were sisters for?

“Patsy said you were coming in to get Bruce’s prescriptions,” Donald said as he rang up the items. His eyes appeared slightly distorted through his thick lenses. “I’m sorry I don’t have enough tablets of one of his medications. I have a shipment coming soon, and I’ll call as soon as it’s ready. This is enough to last him a few days. How’s he doin’?”

“Driving Mom crazy.”

“Ah, good.” Donald beamed at her. She’d always thought of him as an odd duck.
Donald Duck.
“I’m glad to hear he’s feeling better. I was sorry to hear about his girlfriend,” he added with appropriate sympathy.

“Yes, that was horrible,” agreed Stevie.

“Horrible news about Bob Fletcher too.” Donald shook his head. “He wasn’t the best citizen, but no one deserves to be murdered in that way.” He paused. “I always wondered about him.”

Stevie heard the sound of town gossip slide into Donald’s tone and knew he wanted her to ask a question about it. He’d never married and had lived with his mother until she’d died two years ago, and after her death Patsy had done her best to make a match for him, feeling sorry for the lonely, owlish-looking man.

Some of the people in town regarded gossip as a profession. She hadn’t noticed Donald partaking in the chatter before, but it made sense. As the only pharmacist in town, he knew secrets about everyone. No doubt it was like gold in his pocket.

Stevie purposefully took the gossipy bait Donald had offered.

“What did they say about Bob?” she asked, counting out her bills, her gaze on her hands.

“Well, it’s all secondhand, you know. Might not be true.”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire.” She gave Donald a smile. “Although since he’s gone now, no harm can come out of it.”
Spill it, Donald.

“Well,” said Donald. “I heard he’d beat up young Travis. Some of the other guys around here also had black eyes after run-ins with him. And he couldn’t keep staff on at his bar. They say he was a mean son of a bitch to work for.” The pharmacist raised a brow at her. “Pardon my French.”

Stevie gave him an unimpressed look. Everyone had agreed that Bob Fletcher was a bit of an ass.

“And I heard he might have been dealing out of his place.”

Now her ears perked up.

“Bacon?” she asked, immediately thinking of their drug problem from last summer.

Donald waved a hand, dismissing the homemade deadly drug. “No, the real stuff. Oxy. Percocet.”

She narrowed her brows at him. “Where’d he get it?”

“You’re asking the wrong person, Stevie Taylor. I run a tight ship here. I have to account for every pill that goes out that door. Including these ten tablets for your brother.” He sniffed. “I don’t know if it was true, but I’d had a customer get upset with my prices and say he knew where to get it cheaper. He indicated that the truck stop was the place to go shopping.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Donald. I figured you’d be the one to help us with some information if someone like that was bypassing the official system.”

“Last year I told Roy about my suspicions. He said he’d look into it.”

Stevie’s heart sank. Roy had been a Solitude cop until his head had been turned by money and drugs. It’d killed him.

“I guess that was a dead end,” Donald said forlornly.

“I’ll pass it on to Zane,” Stevie said. “We need to find out who killed Bob. I don’t know if he’s looked into the drug angle.”

Donald beamed again. “I’m pleased I might have helped your investigation.”

“Of course,” said Stevie. “And you’ll let us know if you hear anything else? Seems like everyone in town has to come to you for something at one time or another,” she joked.

“They do,” Donald said proudly. “And I do my best to provide it.” He pointed at the Death Star model kit she was purchasing. “I had a twelve-year-old ask me to order those and now I can’t keep them in stock. It’s one of my best sellers.”

Stevie smiled. “What would Solitude do without you, Donald?”

She stepped out of the pharmacy, shuddering at the bitterly cold wind that’d started up that morning. She’d just climbed into her warm car when Zane called.

“Are you coming to work today?” he asked.

“Miss me?”

“I do. And I need an extra set of hands. Actually I need a set of ears. Can you go talk to Amber Lynn’s parents?”

“I thought you were going to do that,” Stevie said. She’d hoped to go with him.

“I want to interview Andrew Reynolds.”

Stevie searched her brain. “Who?”

“The real estate guy who wants to buy O’Rourke’s.”

The slick image of the big-city developer popped into her head. “He’s still in town? He didn’t go home for Christmas?”

“Apparently not. He’s still at the motel and wasn’t sober for an interview last night. I want to do it today.”

Stevie’s curiosity was piqued. What kind of person didn’t go home for Christmas and got hammered in a disgusting motel instead? “Sounds like a fun interview. Maybe I should take that one.”

“No, I’m going to talk to a few others while I’m there.” His voice was grim.

“Who else?”

“I’ve got a trucker who’s a registered sex offender. And I talked to Hank. Vanessa Phillips was raped. Repeatedly. And he thinks she was drugged. I wonder if someone in the bar slipped something into her drink.”

Stevie closed her eyes. “This is getting ugly. Do we have proof that Bob did it?”

“Not yet. Still looking.”

“And you want me to feel the Coopers out about Bob’s murder.”

“He killed their daughter,” Zane said. “I’m curious as to what they’ll say about his death.”

Stevie was too.

CHA
P
TER FIVE

Z
ane pounded on the motel door.

He’d already knocked twice and his patience was wearing thin.
It was fucking cold.
The clicks of bolts moving on the other side of the door encouraged him. The door was pulled open four inches until the chain stopped it. A bloodshot eye stared at him as alcohol fumes escaped from the room. “What?”

“Andrew Reynolds?”

“Yeah.”

“Zane Duncan, Solitude PD. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

The eye blinked at him. “Weren’t you here yesterday?”

“Someone stopped by, but you weren’t in any condition to talk. Feel like talking today?”

“Not really.”

“Well, we found a murdered young woman two doors down from you yesterday. I’d like to talk to you about it.”

Surprise filled the eye. “I hadn’t heard about that.”

“How about you put on some more clothes, and I’ll tell you what happened.” Zane gave his best “Dude, we’re buddies” smile.

“Hang on.” The door closed.

Zane turned and took a breath of clean icy air. He’d nearly suggested Andrew meet him in the lobby, but he wanted a look in his room. Parked directly outside the motel door was a black Hummer with a big dent. He heard the chain slide out of the lock and the door creaked open.

“Sorry about the mess,” Andrew said. “I’d offer you some coffee, but this place doesn’t have coffee brewers in the rooms. Who doesn’t offer that these days? And I had to ask for a hair dryer from the front desk. They looked at me like they’d never heard of one.”

Zane hadn’t used a hair dryer in twenty years. And didn’t know many men who did. If his hair wasn’t dry by the time he’d brushed his teeth, it meant he needed a haircut. But Andrew Reynolds had one of those hairstyles that looked like he spent a little more time. The man was almost . . . pretty. Except for the bloodshot eyes and dark circles below them. “You didn’t go home for Christmas?” he asked.

Andrew plopped onto the edge of his bed and waved a hand at the single chair. “No. The wife and I had a fight.”

“Kids?” asked Zane. He continued to stand. He didn’t want to spend a second more than he had to in the fumy room. Beer bottles and a half-empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s cluttered the nightstands. Three greasy paper bags on the floor indicated Andrew had discovered Nell’s fried chicken.

“No.”

“That’s good.”

“Nothing could have kept me away if we had kids.” Andrew looked him hard in the eye, and Zane’s estimation of him rose a degree. “What’s this about a murder?”

“Young woman, age twenty-five, with long blonde hair, was found dead in her room Christmas morning. We’re looking for anyone who saw her before Christmas. As early as four or five days before.”

“She stayed in this motel that long?” Andrew asked in a sour voice. “You sure she didn’t kill herself?”

Andrew flinched at Zane’s glare and held up his hands. “Sorry. That was tasteless. I have a fucking headache, and I just want to go home.”

“Why haven’t you left if you hate it here so much?” Zane was ready to help him pack.

“Because I’m not done tying up the loose ends on the O’Rourke property and everything shut down for the holidays. We’ve come to an agreement, but it’s not on paper yet. The only Realtor in this town took time off and so did my lender. If I went back to Portland, I’d have to turn around and drive the four hours back. Stacey’s pissed at me, and I don’t want to deal with her right now.”

“Did you see Vanessa Phillips during your stay here?” Zane shifted back to the business at hand. He held out a copy of the picture from Vanessa’s driver’s license.

“Was that her name?” Andrew took the picture. “Pretty girl. She was killed on Christmas? That’s horrible. She doesn’t look familiar. I think I would have remembered her. The only people I’ve seen at this motel are truckers. I’ve ventured out a few times to get food, because no one in town delivers. I’m about to go stir-crazy.”

While Andrew studied the picture, Zane scanned the motel room. Except for clothing and towels on the floor, nothing out of the ordinary caught his eye. Andrew didn’t have any scratches on his hands or face; he just looked exhausted.

Zane felt off-balance in the man’s presence.

Or there were too many alcohol fumes in the room.

He took another look at the man’s hands, wondering if Andrew had the strength to subdue Bob Fletcher and slice through his neck. Zane guessed Andrew’s cell phone was the heaviest thing those hands had ever held.

Please don’t let the killer be a local.

The thought that someone he passed every day on the street had killed Vanessa and Bob made the acid in Zane’s stomach simmer.

He took the picture back from Andrew. “You haven’t seen anything suspicious? There’s a chance the girl was carried into the motel room. Possibly transported in a vehicle and maybe unconscious during that time.”

Andrew shook his head. “I haven’t seen anything like that.”

Zane handed him a business card. “Give me a call if anything occurs to you.”

He stepped outside and pulled the door closed. Being in the room had made him feel like he’d been sitting in a filthy bar all night. He glanced at his watch and decided to grab a cup of coffee before pounding on one more motel door.

Interviewing a sex offender would be a new experience for him.

Stevie slammed shut her patrol car door and eyed the Coopers’ single-wide. Her sister, Carly, had described her own visit, during which the stepfather Tony had expressed a financial interest in taking Amber Lynn’s daughter, Charlotte. He’d given Carly the creeps and unnerved her.

Do I need backup?

Her weapon felt heavy at her hip. Men might be willing to intimidate her unarmed social worker sister, but few tried the same behavior on Stevie. A woman’s face appeared in a window and Stevie smiled and held up a hand. She’d seen Dana Cooper downtown enough times to nod and say hello. Sheila swore she wouldn’t let anyone but Dana do her nails. All Stevie did with her own fingernails was clip them.

Dana opened the front door, a cigarette hanging from her mouth. “You here to see us?”

“I am,” said Stevie.

“Is it about that asshole who killed my Amber Lynn?” Dana asked.

“Yes, it is. How are you doing, Dana?” Stevie thought she looked thinner than usual. “I’m so sorry about Amber Lynn.”

“Children aren’t supposed to die before their parents. I’m doing as well as someone whose child was murdered can be.” Dana looked away and blew her smoke to the side in an angry huff. “I heard Bob Fletcher got what was coming to him.”

Stevie wasn’t surprised. News traveled fast in Solitude. Stevie kicked her boots at the cinder block steps, knocking off the snow. “Can I come in for a few minutes? This won’t take long.”

Dana stepped back, making room for Stevie to squeeze by into the claustrophobic space. Tony sat at a small dinette table, eating breakfast, and the smell of bacon and eggs made Stevie’s stomach rumble. The small mobile home was cold. Both Tony and Dana wore thick bathrobes over their clothing, and Stevie was thankful for her heavy police coat. Tony gave her the evil eye over his hunting magazine as he shoved another bite of eggs in his mouth.

“I hear someone delivered justice for Amber Lynn,” he said as he chewed. “Some people don’t believe in waiting around for the cops and courts. They let everyone off anyway.”

Stevie lifted her chin. “Any idea who this caped crusader is?” She held Tony’s gaze.

He grinned at her, and she saw eggs. “You cops want to put away the hero? Isn’t that how it always goes. The good guy gets in trouble.”

“We have a justice system for a reason,” Stevie argued, knowing she was talking to a wall. “We can’t let the population deliver punishment on a whim. There’s a process.”

“I know your process,” Tony said. “Your process has our granddaughter—Dana’s only kin—living with some stranger.”

Stevie glanced back at Dana, who stared at the floor, one hand pressed against her abdomen while the other tapped her cigarette in a tray. She didn’t appear upset that she didn’t have custody of young Charlotte. She worked full-time and already had one mooching mouth to feed.

“It looks like Charlotte will live with her paternal uncle. But I’m here to talk about Bob Fletcher.” She smiled at Tony. “Any chance you were wearing your cape near the police station Christmas morning?”

Behind Stevie, Dana snorted. Tony set down his fork and chortled. “I didn’t kill Bob Fletcher. Hell, I was at church Christmas morning. We went to the first and second services. We didn’t finish up until one o’clock.”

Small Town Rule #4: Everyone goes to church on Christmas and Easter. Even the assholes.

“He’s telling the truth,” said Dana. “I was on the flower committee for that day.”

“So we’re looking for someone who skipped church that morning,” Stevie said lightly. She’d originally been amused by Tony’s statement, but now she wondered if it was an angle they should look at. A good nine-tenths of the town must have been at some sort of service that morning, but it was a moot point if their killer wasn’t local.

“Know any sinners I should be questioning?” she asked Tony.

“Lots of them. But I saw them at church too.”

She turned and handed Dana a card. “Call us if you think of anything.”

Dana followed her out the door and down the steps, pulling her robe tight against the wind. “Thank you for handling him. I was afraid you’d put him in a bad mood.”

“I know how to handle his type. I try to keep them smiling the whole time.”

“Hard to do day in, day out.” The tired-looking woman sighed.

“If you ever need—”

“Stop right there,” Dana ordered, pointing at Stevie with her cigarette. “Your sister gave me the same lecture. I’m not stupid.”

Stevie bit her tongue, knowing the woman needed to come to her own decision.

Shrewd eyes studied Stevie. “When are you going to marry that police chief of yours? I heard you haven’t even given up your apartment yet. I don’t know what you’re waiting for. In a tiny town like this, you’re not going to find many good ones like I did.” She jerked her head at the window of her home and inhaled on her cigarette, giving Stevie a wink, sharing a womanly bonding moment.

Stevie was speechless as she mentally compared Zane to Tony. She pulled up the hood of her heavy coat. “Merry Christmas, Dana. And I’m very sorry for your loss.”

She climbed in her vehicle, suddenly needing to feel Zane’s arms around her.